By: Christopher Shade I've had a recurring dream for most of my life; about as far back as I can remember. I'm skiing, and I'm with someone. She's ahead of me. There's no reason I should know that the other skier, bundled in ski coat, hat, goggles, gloves, is a woman, yet I do. I don't believe the woman is Paige, my lovely wife of ten years. No, I can't bring myself to even imagine it might be her. It's not her. We're skiing on a gentle slope of a mountainside. Everything is white under snow. The sky is gray. Because everything is white and there are no shadows, it's difficult to make out the terrain. Suddenly, ahead of me, she vanishes. Confused, I stop, and realize-fear spikes in my chest-that I'm on the edge of a cliff. If I hadn't stopped, I would've gone over the cliff. Like she did. I look down, and see her far below on an outcropping, on her back. Her arms and legs are waving in the air, convulsing with the pain of a broken body. I imagine I must've seen something about skiing on television. It's the only logical explanation how a boy in Jacksonville, Alabama, who had hardly ever seen snow and had certainly never been to a ski resort, could so distinctly dream of it. Between our time in Alabama and where we are today, in New York City, Paige and I lived in Colorado. There on the Rocky Mountains, I tried snowboarding. I never tried alpine skiing, and I won't because I'm terrified an accident will happen. I am so terrorized by the dream that even now, wide awake in the middle of the day, sitting at a café in my neighborhood, the Upper West Side, I am trembling, my chest aches, and my heart is beating too fast, a sharp grief for the tragedy, her convulsing with pain and out of my reach. The dream may have become what it is to me, a haunting, out of self-reproach for my wayward youth, the feeling that I haven't had enough misfortune to pay for the bad things I did when I was a kid, a brat, too young to know any better. I don't know that I even did anything very appalling. It's just that I did things I wasn't supposed to do, like building a small fire with twigs and sticks next to the house, for no real reason, just something to do, and anyway I had a pitcher of water, but still it was a wrong thing to do. And vandalism, lots of vandalism, of construction sites, new house lots, because I thought it was wrong for them to cut down all the old trees. I had a lot of sympathy for trees. I protected them. I've never carved anything in the bark of a tree. I poured sand in bulldozer gas tanks. I dragged building materials off into the woods where the workers wouldn't find them and to this day there may be construction-grade windows, cables, cinder blocks, an aluminum ladder hidden among the pines and oaks and undergrowth and moss-covered rocks. And there were mistakes that hurt people's feelings. Once after church in the autumn I was running around the churchyard with a bunch of kids, as kids do, throwing leaves at each other. A certain girl I had a crush on was there, so of course I wanted to throw leaves at her. She and I were throwing leaves back and forth at each other. I scooped up some leaves and threw them at her. They flew at her face. I hadn't noticed, but I guess there was some dirt in that scoop of leaves. She wasn't hurt, but she went to her mom and said I was throwing rocks at her, and her mom went to my mom, and so we had to leave. Mom piled us into the station wagon, and we drove away. I was really upset, not because I was in trouble. I didn't think I was really in trouble. With any luck mom would forget about the whole thing by the time we got home. I was upset because the girl had been crying at her mom's side, when her mom had told my mom, and I had never wanted to make her cry. One would think the accident in November, when my wife and I were hit by a taxi in New York City, would be some recompense-would satisfy, or blunt, my self-reproach. But no, the ache deep down in me continues to tug to say, "You deserve whatever accident happens." My wife and I were on our bicycles when a taxi hit us. The taxi hit me on my bicycle first, and the driver was swerving the wrong way, didn't see Paige on her bicycle. Lying on my side on the street, it occurred to me that Paige and I were going to be all right. I wasn't in much pain, though I had thrown up, some of it still in my mouth. I couldn't move and knew I was in shock, floating just above unconsciousness. Paige was out cold. She was about thirty feet away. I could see her breathing, her chest rising and falling. A wheat-brown lock of curls lay across her cheek. We had worn our helmets, thank goodness, and I was thinking that she had only blacked out, made unconscious by the impact. But then I heard someone on a cell phone to 911 say that the woman was bleeding. I couldn't see any blood. "Save her," I said, a whisper. But no one heard me, and no one would touch her, or touch me, afraid of hurting us. There were people gathering around her and around me, getting between us so I couldn't see her. When we moved to New York City from Colorado, our bicycles helped us make new friends. I organized rides on Long Island, taking our bicycles to Southampton and touring the picturesque south fork, ferrying over to Shelter Island for the night. It was about a hundred miles of relatively flat road, a few hills, but generally an easy ride. The morning of the accident, when we started out, I had a headache, and Paige probably felt the same way though she hadn't complained about it. We were up late the night before with friends, a Friday night, because Peter had tickets to a comedy club in the neighborhood. Peter said, "I saw a guy handing out these free tickets at the subway entrance. I thought it was a good thing for us all to go out and do, so I went around the subway station, going back to the guy three times until I had enough tickets." He laughed and I laughed with him while he poured out another whiskey. "He didn't recognize you?" Paige asked, and Simon and Caroline were there in Peter and Anne's apartment with us, too. Brenda and Patrick were on their way. "Well, I used a different voice every time." And he showed us, saying, "Thanks, buddy," pretending to take a ticket, and then he lowered his chin to his chest and said in a low voice, "Thanks," pretending to take another. Paige laughed with us, her smile infectious, brightening the room. On the way to the comedy club, Simon and I were leading the pack, crossing Amsterdam on 78th Street, toward Broadway, passing brownstones and apartment buildings. It was the weekend after Halloween, dark in the evening, with no leaves left on the trees and a chill in the air. Simon was telling me that he and Caroline each had one other sibling, he had an older sister, and Caroline had an older brother, and wasn't it funny how that somehow made them a good match, still such a good match after two and a half years of marriage. They were going back to England during the Thanksgiving holiday to visit his parents in Yorkshire and her brother in London. They don't celebrate Thanksgiving, but she gets the time off work. Somehow I got on to the topic of my sweet potato biscuits, a recipe I've perfected over the years. He sort of frowned and said, "What's that like?" Being British, he couldn't quite fathom what a sweet potato biscuits was. He thought it was a sort of tea cookie, and I went to great lengths trying to explain that a biscuit was a sort of puffed up thing made out of flour and milk and butter and a few other things, like possibly sweet potatoes. We stopped abruptly at the fantastic vision of twenty dollar bills on the sidewalk. It was a spilled wallet. Simon gathered it up and we all stood around him. "Does it have a phone number?" Anne asked. "Just a driver's license," he said, going through the cards. "A Florida driver's license. Her name is Jessica." "Florida? Must be a tourist." "A student," Simon said. "Here's a college ID for Duke University. Where is that?" Paige said, "North Carolina." "Here's a gym membership." Simon pulled out a card. Paige said, "Call the credit card company." Simon continued to study the wallet, opening and closing it, like a child who has eaten a cookie out of a bag and studies the bag in search of a crumb. Paige said, "That's one of those wallets that flips open either way." I looked at it. It had four bands and somehow it could open from either side. "How does it do that?" I asked. "It's magic," Caroline said. "It's fascinating," I said. "Really amazing. Mesmerizing." "Anything else, dear?" Paige said. "How about marvelous?" "Something a superhero would have," I mused. Simon said, "We should be looking up in the sky, then. Super Jessica. She's probably flying off to meet friends for dinner about now, wouldn't you say?" I looked up. "Not really," Simon said to me. "I know. I was just looking." "She's not really up in the air, you know." "I know," I said, and Paige and Caroline were laughing. "What happened?" Brenda asked, just catching up. Brenda, Patrick, and Peter had been walking some distance behind us. Brenda and Patrick were Dutch and you could hear the accent, though less so in Brenda's voice because her English was first-rate. Sometimes when we said something really fast to them, in their instant of hesitation, in their blinking eyes you could almost see the translation happening. "Found a wallet," Simon said. Patrick asked, "A wallet? Whose wallet?" He leaned in to see. "Her name is Jessica." "How old is she?" "Let's see," Simon said, studying her driver's license. "About twenty-seven, I guess." "Hm, really? What does she look like?" "Patrick," Brenda scolded. "What?" Patrick laughed. "I was only curious. Maybe we'll see her." He looked around at the street, but only our group of friends was there at that moment. "You're not going to see her." "I mean on the street," Patrick said. "Here or there. See someone look like her, maybe, nothing meaning." His English broke apart when he tried to say something quickly. "Hey you two, stop fighting," Peter said, laughing. "You're newlyweds. You haven't been married long enough to fight." A few weeks before, Patrick and Brenda had married in the Netherlands and honeymooned in Africa. "Peter," Anne scolded him, swatting him lightly on the shoulder. Peter held up his hands. "What did I say?" Brenda and Patrick spoke quietly in Dutch. None of us understood what they were saying to each other. I took out my cell phone and called the gym, hoping they would have a phone number for Jessica. The man at the gym said to bring the wallet over, and they would hold it for Jessica. The comedy club was just down the street, at the end of the block. Simon looked at his watch. There was some time before the first comedy act. He said, "I'll just pop over to the gym." "I'll go with him," I said. The others began to go into the club. Paige turned to us and said, "Don't give them the wallet." Caroline agreed, "Yeah, don't leave it there." Simon and I walked uptown to 83rd street. He said, "There's so much information about people all around us, isn't there? There are all sorts of ways to find someone." I called 411 for a residential listing for Jessica. We were delighted to find one. I left a message on the answering machine, which didn't give a name but was the voice of a young woman. I said to Simon, "We're really good at this detective thing." "We could find anybody." I asked him, "So, when we get to the gym, what if they ask us for the wallet?" "We won't give it to them. I'll give them my business card. They can give her a message to call me." "Oh, that's a good idea," I said. "Do you think they would really steal the money in the wallet?" |
"Would you be surprised if they did?"
"I hadn't considered it before Paige said something. She's right, I think." It wasn't busy at the gym. There was hardly anyone there. The man at the desk was about as big as both of us put together. He had bags under his eyes. He moved lazily. He looked up Jessica's profile in the computer and found her membership expired. He reluctantly called the phone number on file. We waited, feeling rising impatience, as he unhurriedly made the phone call. He hung up and after another long moment told us no one had answered. "Did a machine pick up?" I asked. He shook his head. I didn't believe him, but it didn't matter. It was obvious now that it hadn't been such a good idea to try the gym. I was ready to go. I was a little shocked by what happened next. Simon put the gym card back in the wallet and said to the man, "What's the matter with you? You could be a little more helpful, couldn't you?" "It's her tough luck," the man said. "It doesn't affect you, so why bother, is that it?" The big man folded his hands in his lap. "Yeah, well, good luck." I wanted to go. I could tell Simon didn't want to go. In one hand he tightly held the wallet. The other was balled into a fist. His face was flushed with his anger. I said, "Let's go." Simon and I stood on a corner of Amsterdam Avenue. "I'm really angry," he said. "I know." I was afraid he would go back in. "He didn't have the slightest interest in helping us return Jessica's wallet." "I know." "He didn't even care that I was angry." "It was very brave of you." I wasn't sure how well Simon would've done against that guy. Simon probably would've done all right. After all, he'd been in the Royal Navy, manning a 30mm close range gun on a frigate destroyer, and I could imagine the ship at port and the sailors brawling in pubs. The light changed, and we crossed Amsterdam toward Broadway, heading back the way we came. I was glad to put distance between us and the gym. "Let's call the credit card companies." Simon sighed. "Yeah, that's the next thing to try, I suppose." He handed me a Wachovia bank card and I called the customer service number on the back. Simon tried calling a Citibank card, but was put on hold and no one ever answered. At Wachovia, I was connected promptly to a representative. I said, "I found a wallet of one of your customers. I'm in New York City. She has a Florida driver's license." And I gave him the credit card number. He said he would contact her while I held. When he returned to the line, he asked if I would go to the nearest police station. Simon and I were in front of the comedy club again. I had no idea where a police station was in our neighborhood, and I was ready to join our group of friends inside. The show had already started. The man at Wachovia said, "I've been able to contact her father. For your safety, and for ours, it's best if you drop it off at a police station." "Really," I said, "I don't mind if you give her father my cell phone number. I'm about to go into a comedy club with friends. My wife and I, and our friends with us tonight, all live in the neighborhood. It's the easiest way to get the wallet back to her." I gave him my name, and he seemed surprised that I was willing to do so. He seemed a little reluctant to pass on my name and number to Jessica's father, but I convinced him to, and then Simon and I went inside. It wasn't until days later that I realized Paige had told us in the very beginning to call the credit card companies. It was a two drink minimum at the club, so I drank some vodka martinis, straight up, olives. I laughed so much I had to use the cocktail napkin to wipe tears from my face. It was much-needed relief. It had been a gloomy week after the 2004 presidential election. After the show, everyone was herded out to the bar and a waiting crowd sent in for the next show. After so much vodka, I had shamefully forgotten about Jessica's wallet, but anyway I wasn't worried about it because Simon had it and Simon was a man of great character, very responsible, the sort of man old ladies approach on the street and ask if he would help her carry home groceries. Old ladies had in fact asked him to carry groceries several times. Only goodness knows what stories I told my friends while we stood at the bar finishing our drinks, laughing together. At one point, the group of friends divided, men and women, and I looked over and saw Paige among the women, at that moment the center of attention among them, talking to Caroline, and they all laughed about something Caroline said, and I wondered if Paige was as dizzy as I was. Peter said, "All right, drinks at our place," and we walked back to the apartment building. In their kitchen, Peter asked me, "What would you like to drink?" I said, "Let's see, I've had a few martinis, so something strong." "Something strong?" Anne said, laughing, and in my state I couldn't understand why she found it such a funny thing for me to say. It wasn't until then that I remembered Jessica's wallet and my cell phone, which I found to be set to silent. There were five missed calls. "Oh my gosh, Simon," I said, finding him in the doorway of the kitchen. "There are five missed calls." The messages were left by her father in Florida, a man named Sandy, presumably a very large man, Simon and I agreed, probably a giant, a giant who was very concerned about his daughter's wallet, a giant who could snap me in two, and there were messages left by Jessica from a nearby restaurant. I knew I was too drunk to call her back. Who knows what I might say, or how I might sound, and on this Simon and I agreed. So I handed the phone to Simon. Simon thought about it for a moment and then asked Brenda if she would call Jessica for us. "Give me the phone," Brenda said. "What's the number?" Jessica and a friend took a taxi to our apartment building. Brenda met her downstairs and returned the wallet. As I swayed in the kitchen, drinking whiskey, talking to Peter about something he read in the Economist, and then found myself in the front room in a chair among my friends, I was thinking about my skiing dream and it occurred to me I had some idea of the uncertainty Jessica must've felt after her wallet was lost. It was like the spike of fear in my chest when I have the dream, when I realize I have been skiing toward a cliff. Though in my dream, the uncertainty progresses to terror. I hadn't spoken a word of my dream, but as if on cue, my friends began to talk about a ski trip. It was Simon and Caroline who first mentioned it. I didn't really want to go, because of the nightmare, but I found myself and Paige hooked in as the plan unfolded. The trip was to be in January. Anne suggested we would take Peter's car. To get the car, we would go down to Staten Island, taking the ferry, and then take a bus to his parents' house. Simon suggested the train. The ice was knocking around in my glass as my hand began to tremble. I drank quickly. No one was noticing my anxiety. Paige knew about my dream. I'd told her years ago. But, admittedly, I had so many quirks, she probably didn't remember that particular one. As it turned out, I didn't have to find a way out of the ski trip. The next morning, we were hit by the taxi. I couldn't blame my friends or the martinis or even the taxi driver as I lay on the pavement after the accident. I blamed only myself. "Save her," I whispered to the paramedic who knelt in front of me. I was having trouble breathing. Something seemed to be pushing back when I pulled in air. "Where does it hurt?" he asked, and there was a kind of panic in his eyes as he looked at my body. "Nowhere," I whispered. "Lots of pressure inside." "Damn," he said, a sigh, as he unfolded a blanket over my body. They took us to the hospital. Several things were broken in my body and now I make my way around the apartment with crutches sulkily, a little bit like the young brat again, going from chair to chair where I sit slouching for hours with books I'd rather not be reading. I get up late in the morning and take the elevator down, standing alone in the old elevator, and I go out to the corner newsstand for the Times, my big outing for the day. Paige is all right, healing. She has pain meds, too, but mine are better so I'm sharing. The meds cast deep spells of sleep over us. Paige baked biscotti today, classic almond biscotti, because it's nearly winter and already it's thirty degrees outside. It's the time of year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the sun sets early and holiday lights are up in the city. In the afternoon, Simon and Caroline came over for tea. Paige and Caroline were in the kitchen putting fresh biscotti on a plate and preparing pots of tea, and talking and laughing as close friends do. Simon and I were in the front room, talking quietly. I was sitting on the blue stuffed chair, crutches on the floor, and Simon was across from me on the sofa. Even though it hurt me to lean forward, I leaned closer and quietly told him about my dream. He had the most remarkable response. He asked with self-assurance, as if the answer was obvious, "Well, Christopher, a dream is never what it is, is it?" And I sat back, letting the wisdom of it seep in to my thick head. "So, it has nothing to do with skiing." "I'd be surprised if it did." "I shouldn't be so afraid to go skiing," I ventured carefully. "It's just a dream." "You're not superstitious at all," I said, too defensively. "You're a scientist, a technologist. You think everything can be explained. But I'm not built that way." I stopped myself from saying more. I nearly went further to say I was raised in a very religious household, a large Catholic family, in the Deep South, and more about the mysteries I'd experienced. I could've said it. He wasn't listening anyway. He was thinking. Something had occurred to him. After a moment, he said, "Right, you're not built that way." I couldn't stand not knowing what was on his mind. "Go on, say it." "Say what?" "Whatever it is you were about to say." "Clearly, Christopher, you are the woman skier in your dream." I sat straighter. "I'm not gay!" He laughed. I protested, but it only made him laugh more. He laughed so hard he put his head down in his hands. I crossed my arms. "I don't get it. I really don't." Simon tried to calm himself. He could see I was very upset by the analysis. He leaned forward. "It could be a fish"-he put his hands out wide-"a great big fish on skis, and it would still be you. You've said yourself you can't see who the other skier is. That's precisely why it's so obviously you." I remember clearly what it was like to ride my bicycle. I remember the wind, the burning leg muscles, my grip on the handlebars, my fingers resting on the brake levers. I was always alert, always watching, listening, feeling the way the tires met the road. I remember the taxi-a yellow flash-as I was pedaling, speeding, zipping in front of stopped cars, rocketing out into an open space. The yellow flash hit me first. If it's true that I'm the front skier in my dream, and the dream was prescient of our accident, then something went wrong: Paige shouldn't have been hurt. I was the woman in my dream skiing off the cliff, and Paige was supposed to be the one who safely slid to a stop on the cliff's edge. Now when I have the dream I somehow force myself awake before anything goes wrong. I'm skiing, and I'm with someone. She's ahead of me. We're skiing on a gentle slope of a mountainside. Sensing something might go wrong, I'm startled awake. The dream ends before I can know if there is still a cliff on that white, featureless terrain. There's pain in my chest, lots of pressure, like I'm on the pavement again-but no, I'm not on the pavement. I'm in my bed. I'm staring up into the darkness and trying to convince myself that Paige and I are safe, and there is no cliff. |